Dance of the Dead
by Narysse a'Jahar
Summary: 25 years later, Frank resigns from his topsecret Network position...which just might have been the biggest mistake he ever made. Prequel to No Place to Hide.
1. Breakfast at the Green Dome

Chapter One

Breakfast at the Green Dome

**

* * *

A/N: NEVER trust anyone in here who wears a black top hat! **_

* * *

_

_Nancy Drew stared at the man in front of her in a black top hat and trench coat. Black slacks, black boots …she didn't trust him. "What do you mean, Frank's_ dead_?" she hissed. "He's smarter than that."_

_The man leaned against the doorframe; his eyebrows almost touching and a permanent line between them, giving him a look almost like one she had seen before on a man she hadn't trusted. Behind her, her and Frank's ten-year-old son, Brett, was listening. "Look, Mrs. Hardy, your husband died in the line of duty. We couldn't rescue him in time. The building he was in went up in flames."_

* * *

He woke slowly, feeling dizzy and slightly nauseous. Wondering why he was still in the apartment he shared with Nancy and their son Brett—since the last thing he had heard was the hissing sound of gas being pumped into their apartment by means of the keyhole as he packed his things—he swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

The blue lace curtains Nancy had sewn and hung in the windows were closed. He unsteadily got to his feet, and, making his way over to the nearest window, opened them.

He expected to see the busy streets of downtown Bayport. Instead, he saw a courtyard with a fountain. Lined with greenery. Deserted.

His eyes widened in shock. How had he gotten here? How long had he been unconscious? Long enough to be transported here, evidently. Wherever _here_ was.

The man, who was in his late thirties, opened the door and stepped out, not into the hallway he expected, but into fresh air and a green-trimmed walk. He went quickly down to the fountain, and discovered there was more there other than what he could see through his window. But he turned back, looking the way he had come.

The dwelling he had stepped out of had a sign near it: _Number 12. Private_.

He made his way along the green on the other side of the fountain, noting white squares painted onto the grass in one area of the green. A chessboard? Perhaps.

He walked slowly back to Number 12's imitated apartment, puzzled.

* * *

The front door swung open with an electronic hum shortly after he had re-entered his dwelling, admitting a view of the bustling walkers in the courtyard and an elderly man, dressed in a suit that was almost comical in the manner of which it had been patterned. Rounded collar on the dark blue suit-coat, trimmed with white. Grey turtleneck shirt underneath, beige casual slacks. Dark blue tennis shoes, again trimmed with white and with white laces. A broad-brimmed, yellow straw hat, its top squat and flat. And a pin upon the pocket, round and—again—white, with an old-fashioned bicycle. With a canopy. And a number in a boldly typed, reddish font: **_2_**. 

The man smiled. For some reason, the man who _thought_ he was Number 12 felt cold.

"Where is my family?"

The question was involuntary. Abrupt.

"You are in the Village," the man (Number 2?) said, ignoring his companion's words. "I would like to invite you for breakfast at ten. In the Green Dome."

Number 12 stood in front of Number 2's console, eyeing the peculiarly rounded chair that had risen up from the floor to greet his arrival. _Like a big black ball, halved and hollowed and decorated with pillows. They try to make this place seem like home. But it's not. WHERE IS THIS FREAKHOUSE?_

"Where am I?" Number 12 asked. He was still dressed in his business clothing: a stark contrast to Number 2's comical suit.

"The Village," Number 2 said again.

"Why do you have a number? Number 2," he observed.

"Here we have no names. Only numbers," 2 said. As if reciting from memory. As if it had been drilled into him countless times.

Number 12 leaned in towards his captor. "I am not a number," he said, his words strangely familiar. _Why?_ "I will not be filed, stamped, pushed, briefed, debriefed, or numbered! My life—is my own. I am a man. A _free_ man. Frank Hardy. Where are my wife and son? My brother? My parents? My real home, not the home you have imitated for me?"

"You quit. Walked out," his companion said, tracing the triangular handle of his umbrella and acting as though he had not heard a word the dark-haired man calling himself Frank Hardy had just told him.

"I didn't walk out," Number 12 growled, his dark eyes flashing. "I _resigned_."

"Against your superior's orders," Number 2 pointed out. "You know too much."

* * *

Number 2 pressed a button on the silver-grey horseshoe console with his umbrella, a large, primary-coloured thing with a plain but peculiar handle. And a small, round table, suitable for one occupant, rose up from a hidden cavity in the floor. 

He pressed a second button with his umbrella, this time summoning a chair near the table. All this summoned furniture, of course, appeared _outside_ the console, near where Number 12 was standing.

The metal doors, which led into the silver-grey chamber, slid open, revealing a short, portly old figure wheeling a cart laden with dome-covered trays. The cart was wheeled up to the table, and its contents were unloaded.

Number 12, suddenly realizing how hungry he was, lifted some of the domes. Steam rose from underneath them, and through it he could see the trays' contents: poached eggs sprinkled with ground black pepper, bacon, toast. The portly man-dwarf who had brought in the cart was now placing a teapot upon the already full table, wedging it in between the eggs and bacon. And a clean plate was set before Number 12, along with a set of silverware and a teacup.

He poured the contents of the teapot into the cup; discovered from the aroma that it was his preferred flavour of coffee. Looking up, he saw that Number 2 was watching him carefully.

Number 12 sat in the chair, cradling the warm teacup in his hands. "What is this place?" he asked, though he thought he knew what the answer would be.

"Your home," Number 2 replied. "It is where people like yourself are taken after they have served their time." He paused. "We call it 'your home from home.'"

"A prison," Number 12 said. It wasn't a question, but the man in front of him perceived it as one, and looked at him peculiarly; though he didn't reply.

* * *

"I want to know where my family is. Why I am here," Number 12 insisted bluntly after he had finished eating. Cautiously, of course, for he still didn't trust Number 2. 

The latter was watching him with pursed lips, his chin resting upon his hands, which were, in turn, resting upon the triangular handle of his umbrella. "You are here because you quit," Number 2 said.

"I didn't quit," Number 12 growled again. "I resigned. Where is my family?"

Number 2 sighed. "They have been told you died."

Number 12 stared at him. "And how did I supposedly die?" he asked icily.

"A fire. You were trapped, wounded by one of the men you were chasing, in a building that suddenly went up in flames," Number 2 informed him.

"Nancy won't take that for an answer," Number 12 stated. "Joe won't, either. They'll find me."

"You have too much confidence in your family and friends."

Number 12 shrugged. "They will find me," he insisted. And he got up and left, the metal doors to the circular room in which Number 2 resided opening, then sliding shut after him.

"I think," Number 2 said quietly to himself, still resting his chin upon the triangular handle of his coloured umbrella but now watching the large screen on one side of the silver-grey room that now showed Number 12 walking briskly down the path to his dwelling, "we have a challenge."


	2. Legacies and Liars

Chapter 2

Legacies and Liars

A/N: Ropers are a type of cowboy boot; they have a ½ inch heel and are Packers; in other words, they lace up. The style I usually don when I wear jeans are just tall enough to support my ankles (as a dancer of 13 years I'm always twisting at least one ankle, so shoes that support them are a necessity for me), and are black.

* * *

Joe Hardy hung up the phone in disgust for the fourth time, glaring at it and cursing angrily under his breath. "Busy!" he muttered. Why, of all times, was Vanessa's work number busy _now_?

"Dad?"

He looked up; one of his twelve-year-old twins, Elen, was standing there—Gwladys _(Welsh for Claudia & pronounced the way Gladys is pronounced)_ was at soccer practice.

"Something's not right," Elen said, her eyes suddenly widening. "It's Uncle Frank, isn't it?"

Joe nodded. She'd been in school when the men had come, and had just gotten home—and he'd learned long ago to trust her hunches.

"A fire?"

Again, he nodded. "Elen, he's dead," he told her heavily.

But she shook her head, her two plaited pigtails waving with the movement. "He's not dead, Daddy," she assured him, her face the usual blankness she acquired during times of clairvoyance- times such as this.

"You can see him?" Joe asked eagerly. _Like a schoolboy._

"Let me concentrate!" Elen complained. "This doesn't always work, you know. What I'm seeing now might not happen for a month!" She paused.

_Precocious, isn't she?_ Frank's voice said in his brother's mind as Elen concentrated.

_

* * *

The two brothers were at a family Christmas three years ago; Elen had been observant even then._

_Frank had just gotten back from a case in the Chautauqua Institution area of New York State, and was in the process of telling Joe and their father, Fenton, about it. "And then, you wouldn't believe this, but the girl I'd been using to get information for a sting turned on me! She claimed she was with the police, and, well…" he trailed off, embarrassed. "So there I was, in the booking room, and I was trying my best to explain that I was with the Network without actually giving away vital information!"_

_"You should have plead entrapment, Uncle Frank," Elen commented seriously, climbing into Fenton's lap to listen to Frank's account of being arrested as a spy._

_"And why is that, Ellie?" Frank asked, trying hard to keep a straight face._

_"Well, you didn't know that your confidential informant was actually playing the Muggable Mary part, did you?" she replied. "And since _she_ was a police officer to begin with, thinking you were the kingpin of the whole operation, it really _was_ entrapment."_

* * *

Elen said slowly, "He's in some kind of prison, along a border. Overseas. It's green and blue, maybe a few old castles in the area." She gave a wry smile. "Sorry, Dad. That's the best I could do."

Joe sighed in frustration. "Can you be any more specific, Ellie?" _Ellie._ He hadn't used that name since she was ten.

Elen imitated Joe's own sigh and shook her head. "I see only outlines. Besides, I'm never certain it'll be today, or two weeks from now, or a month from now. It's been only once that I've seen something happening _when_ it happened, and that was the electronic theft case a while back, remember?"

He reached over and tugged one of her pigtails. "You did the best you could," he said.

She smiled sadly. "But my best isn't good enough."

* * *

On most days, the Grey Man was happy for an interruption from the tedious task of paperwork. This day, however, he was not.

It had started when his secretary had announced that a Mrs. Nancy Hardy was here to see him. Nancy, Frank's wife, had a hotheaded temper more suitable for a redhead than a blonde. But the Grey Man had to admit that she made a useful spy for their side: she always had a new trick up her sleeve. Yet that was another downfall, the Grey Man reflected ruefully: she used her tricks on _him_ whenever she could to get information on the cases her husband was assigned to.

She was standing in front of him now, looking ravishing—as usual; she looked good in anything—in a black, Western-style collared shirt with two inches of black leather fringe hanging down from the breast and tight, stone-washed blue jeans decorated with a belt and turquoise buckle. On her feet were black ropers- _dangerous boots_, he remembered with a slight wince, for he'd seen the damage Nancy Drew could do with those things.

"I don't believe that Frank died in a fire," Nancy said icily, her arms crossed. "I don't want to believe it, and I won't." She paused. "I told Joe and Vanessa he died. They're on their way over here as we speak. And what of Brett? He's only ten years old! He'll never remember the legacy his father was save for the stories, and never will know the legacy his father could have been."

"Mrs. Hardy, we'll let you know if there are any more developments if we get them, all right?" the Grey Man tried.

She stared at him levelly, her face carefully blank. But her blue eyes were flashing. "All right."

_Liars._


	3. Seagulls and Chess

Chapter 3

Seagulls and Chess

_A/N: ASL: American Sign Language._

_If anyone is confused about the content, it's about 20 years after the books take place. Frank's resigned from his position in the Network and they want to know why. And Nancy Drew and Joe Hardy want to know how and why Frank's missing..._

_btw, _The Prisoner_ was a British TV series that aired in 1968 and 1969, involving a man (_Secret Agent Man_) who resigned from his top-secret government job. Except now he's in a place called the Village where they are trying to find out why he resigned._

* * *

A pleasant-sounding klaxon brought the man who called himself Frank Hardy out of a shallow sleep. "Good morning, all!" a woman's cheery voice announced. "It's another beautiful day. A few announcements: Ice cream is now on sale at the Restaurant. The flavor of the day is strawberry. Expect a few showers later on, though warm weather will be in place for the rest of the month." 

He remembered the events of the previous day with a jolt: he'd been brought here, to the Village (whatever that was); where he had been told it was a place where people like himself- those who worked for the Network- were sent when they resigned, or retired, or whatever it was they did to quit their job.

He remembered that he now had a number instead of a name; he was Number 12. Number 2 ran the Village. But who was Number 1?

His front door swung open with that electronic hum, admitting a young woman with shoulder-length blonde hair who was dressed in a maid's outfit.

"Good morning, sir," the maid said, her voice as pleasant as the announcer's.  
Number 12 pulled a bathrobe on over his pajamas and went over to the closet. "Where are my clothes?" he demanded upon opening the door. There was one suit hanging there, similar in every way to Number 2's, straight down to the broad-brimmed straw hat, rectangular-handled umbrella, and dark tennis shoes trimmed with white.

"They have been burned," the maid replied. He could see that the badge upon her chest had the number **_26_** printed on it in the same red font as Number 2's.

"I want them back." _Childish. Wants are childish_.

"I'm sorry," the maid said. She hurried back to the door, but stopped. "I know what you must think of me," she said, turning back to him. Tears were welling up in her eyes. "They've offered my freedom in exchange, if you would just tell me why you resigned!"

Number 12 stared at her. "I have nothing to tell you," he said coldly. "_Get out_!"

The maid, almost gladly, scurried to obey.

* * *

He walked slowly along a path that bordered a beach. Seagulls cawed overhead, their voices pleasant to his distraught nerves. A beached sailboat, well out of the reach of spring tide, was moored on the greenness that was on the edge of the mudflats. 

"Do you play?" an elderly voice asked behind him.

Number 12 turned and saw an old man sitting at a white table that was laden with a chessboard. "No," he admitted. His observant eyes saw a sign in the distance near a building; he could just barely make out the lettering upon it: _Old People's Home_.

"You should learn," the man said, beckoning to him with a kindly gesture and smile.

But Number 12 shook his head. "Sorry, I'm a bit preoccupied. I wouldn't make a good partner."

"Ah, what the younger generation has not yet learned," the elderly man said blissfully. "Be seeing you." And a peculiar hand motion—a salute in the form of the ASL signed "f"—followed.

Number 12 copied the motion awkwardly and muttered "Be seeing you" somewhat uncomfortably.

* * *

_A/N: sorry if this is flowing a bit awkwardly. I'm trying my best to stay true to both the Hardy Boys and the Prisoner...but you know how it is._


	4. Prisoners and Keepers

Chapter 4

Prisoners and Keepers

_A/N: I own nothing except the plot._

_Also, it has been (thinks) roughly 13 years since I was last on a beach (I was Charleston, SC, when I was in 1st grade for the Sysco Foods National Truck Rodeo, courtesy of my father), so all following beach descriptions are from an _**extremely **_vague memory of playing in the water and feeling the skin on my feet grow tight from the salt…_

_Btw, the children's mystery series character mentioned near the beginning of this chapter is one of the main characters from the Trixie Belden mystery series._

* * *

It was not so very long ago, Number 12 reflected somewhat ruefully, definitely sorely as he walked forlornly along the Beach—that he and Nancy had done this very thing. Hand in hand, with nine-year-old Brett dashing ahead, seagulls scattering to white pinpricks in the blue sky as the impatient little boy approached them; then the gulls spiralled back down like a corkscrew to land once more upon the saturated sand. White sea foam had lingered there, dampening Frank and Nancy's bare toes, the sea salt making their skin feel tight, as it always did. Ships were visible in the distance out past the baymouth bar of Barmet Bay, he recalled, and a few small jellyfish strewn upon the beach were drawing in more gulls.

Number 12 stopped and looked about him. Mountains on either side of the harbour upon whose shores The Village loomed, faerie-tale peaceful, yet as ominous as the legends surrounding the castles of Transylvania. Sea before him; sea so inviting, so peaceful, yet treacherous at the same time—in fact, that very evening, the cheery woman announcer would warn the Villagers of rip tides close to the shore. HOWEVER, she would state, somewhat amused as she usually would be if such a comment were to be made, THE GUARDIANS WILL BE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR SWIMMERS IN DANGER.

He started walking again, reaching the forest bordering the Village and continuing onward, but…

"You've passed the boundaries," a deep, British-toned male voice informed him off to his right. From the forest itself. As if the trees could talk.

Number 12 turned and saw a man standing there, dressed in the same style as himself. "Boundaries?" he asked, puzzled.

The man nodded, coming down the small bank and walking until he stood in front of Number 12. "You're new here, aren't you?" he said, glancing around. Uneasily, Number 12 decided. The man's words were not quite a question, nor were they quite the comment._ Neither one thing, nor yet quite t'other_, a voice intoned from Number 12's memory.

"Yes," Number 12 replied, somewhat hesitantly. "Are you?"

The man eyed him. Blue eyes, slight smattering of freckles, sandy, wavy hair almost like that of a children's mystery series character he remembered from his youth. And Number 12 discovered that he trusted this newcomer; had a sense of familiarity about him. "I am not new here," the newcomer answered. "But I am relatively unfamiliar with this setup, yes."

A roaring sound, a combination of bear and machine, reached their ears. "Shall we go back to the inside of the boundaries?" Number 12's companion asked.

"Why?" Number 12 asked, following after his companion.

"Rover," was the reply.

---

"You may call me Number 6," the blue-eyed man told Number 12. "Everybody does."

They were in the man's private apartments; a graceful instrumental like the sound of spring birdsong coming from the speaker that was in every dwelling; Number 12 sitting, somewhat uncomfortable, upon a chair in his companion's kitchenette watching as Number 6 puttered around, making lunch for the two of them. "What's your number?"

"12," the man calling himself Frank Hardy replied. "I arrived…yesterday."

Number 6, in the process of cracking two eggs into a buttered cast iron skillet, nodded sympathetically. "Number 2 advised me to help you around these first few days." He paused, using the time to throw the eggshells into the bucket reserved for compost and washing his hands. "You see, like your self, I am a prisoner. The persons holding jobs of authority are usually keepers—except for the shopkeeper. He, like us, is a prisoner." Number 6 paused in his explanation once again, this time to crack the two yolks and flip the eggs. Number 12, having not eaten breakfast, discovered his mouth was watering. Fried egg sandwiches, the main course on Number 6's menu for today, were a common meal at home. Nancy would spread garlic-flavoured mayonnaise and chipotle hot sauce (the smoky kind, of course—never the spicy kind, because she hated spicy foodstuffs) on sourdough rye bread, and fry bread and all briefly before serving. It was one of the things he discovered he would miss the most. From his material world back home, anyway.

---

Number 12, satisfied at last, leaned back in his chair. Number 6, facing him, had told him all he knew of The Village: its occupants, its norms, its rules. And Rover.

"What is Rover?" Number 12 had asked, taking his chance as his companion had paused in his description of The Village to eat.

Number 6 had swallowed and said, somewhat dryly, "The Village Guardian. A large, white plastic weather balloon-type Guardian, which makes sure no one escapes. I advise you to avoid it whenever possible."

Now, Number 6 leaned back as well, wiping the last bit of mayonnaise from his lips. "Now," said he, "I will take you around to the different shops and we will stock your own apartments with the necessities."

"I want to go back home," Number 12 said stubbornly.

"I know," his companion replied gently. "But here, having found out the hard way numerous times, there is no escape."

* * *

"Vanessa!" Joe Hardy said quickly into the phone. After calling her all day, he'd finally gotten hold of Vanessa Bender; and after all that he was not about to let her hang up, as she had done so many times in the past when he'd attempted to call. "Frank's been reported as non-salvageable on a detective job, and Nancy and I don't believe that report."

There was a long pause from the other end of the line. "And just how have you two come up with this assumption?" Vanessa asked coldly; almost sarcastically. "Elen?"

Joe stiffened. "As a matter of fact, _yes_. Look, Van, I accept your privacy and everything else, but what is it that you have against her? She _is_ your daughter, after all."

"_Was_," Vanessa corrected him in that same, cold voice. "No longer will I have any connection with the Hardy family."

"Vanessa, why?"

She sighed, having clearly explained this several times before. "When I first met you, Joe, and your brother, it was something out of a dream. Out of a storybook, like the Trixie Belden mysteries I read as a girl. But every time you or Frank would get hurt or kidnapped, all I could think about was what it had been like before I met you. No constant worrying, no phone calls late at night to help you with a Muggable Mary setup or anything like that. It was all so carefree. As if the real world didn't even exist.

"And then Elen and Gwladys were born. I knew it would be even worse when Elen started in with her _clairvoyance_ skits. I knew that I couldn't live like that, knowing that _something_ would happen, but not knowing when; or where; or how." She paused. "Do you understand, Joe? I still love you, but I could not live the life of a detective, wondering when you would get kidnapped next—or when _I_ would get kidnapped because of my connection with you. Remember when the Assassins made it seem as though Callie and Nancy had been killed, and they had actually killed Iola? I saw the toll that knowledge: the belief that Callie and Nancy were dead, had taken on Frank, and, to some extent, you."

"Look, Van, I respect your privacy; but things have not changed. Would you at least be willing to help us look for Frank," asked Joe, "assuming, of course, that he is still alive? We're meeting here at seven-thirty tomorrow night. Bring Paul." _But you know Paul will make things difficult,_ a tiny voice warned him. _He always does_. "I don't care."

"I'm sorry, Joe," Vanessa said quietly. "I'm a Laskry now; I promised myself I would no longer have anything to do with your family."

"Even Gwladys and Elen?"

"Even them." And she hung up slowly; and Joe was left staring at the silent receiver.

_But I want everything to do with you._


	5. Six of One

Chapter 5

Six of One…

_Will you follow_

_If I but call your name?_

_And if you follow_

_Will I be the same?_

_When winter's snows are over_

_And morning dew dries the sun_

_Will you follow when I but call_

_Your name?_

Joe leaned back on the sofa in his living room, listening to the gentle melody of Storiawr and her tin whistle; and remembering Vanessa.

He'd called her that morning again, but Paul had answered. Joe had asked for Vanessa, and as usual, Paul had had other ideas.

"Stay away from Vanessa, you hear?" Paul had hissed in his throaty voice. I don't want your kind around."

"Paul, it's not like that," Joe had attempted to explain. "It's my brother, Frank—"

"Oh, the detective that was killed a couple days ago?" Paul commented. "Serves him right. Never did like your kind anyway."

"He's not dead," Joe said quickly, before Paul could slam the phone back into its cradle. "He's still alive, but Nancy and I need help finding him. Will you tell Vanessa for me? She'll know what I mean."

"Yeah," Paul growled, "and she won't, unless Elen's out of the way."

"Elen's my daughter!" Joe protested. "And she's the only one who can help us right now. Just tell Vanessa for me? Please? She will know."

But Paul had hung up with no further comments, and it was now seven-fifteen. Nancy, Chet Morton, Biff Hooper, Phil Cohen, Tony Prito, and Jerry Gilroy were due here any minute. Joe had even called Callie Shaw, Frank's old flame from high school, but he doubted she'd show up- she was in Washington State, studying anthropology. But as his father, Fenton, used to say, it never hurt to try. Besides, during a case like this there was always safety in numbers.

_If it were the other way_

_Would you stop for me_

_On the street?_

_Would you comfort me_

_Were I to weep?_

_But leave these be,_

_For I am yours,_

_And you are mine._

_But when winter's snows_

_Are over and morning dew dries the sun,_

_Will you follow_

_When I but call _

_Your name?_

Joe remembered, with a slight pang of—what was it? Guilt? Sadness? —that that song had been Vanessa's favourite.

* * *

"Hi, Joe, how've you been?" Phil Cohen asked, shaking the rain out of his hair much the way an Australian Shepherd might, and spraying water all over Joe and the foyer. 

"I've been better," Joe replied, taking Phil's soaked rain jacket and throwing it over a nearby peg. "What's in the bag?"

Phil hefted his lumpy garbage bag and somehow got it into the living room and on the coffee table. "Some stuff I thought might be useful for the case." He rummaged through it and pulled out a pair of chunky sunglasses. "I got this idea from a spy series my mom was a big fan of. See, the camera's in the earpiece, and this dealy here allows us to communicate with whoever's on the other end."

"Let me guess," Joe said, grinning. "_La Femme Nikita_, right?"

Phil didn't answer; he just put the sunglasses back in the garbage bag with the rest of whatever else he'd brought along.

"Anybody home?" a deep voice called.

Joe stiffened. "Great," he muttered. "Just what I need."

"Who's that?" Phil asked, seeing the look on his friend's face. "An enemy of yours?"

Joe shrugged. "You could say that," he said. "It's Paul Laskry."

"Paul who?"

"Vanessa Bender's husband."

* * *

"I see…a green dome. Some who live there say it's the center of that Village." Elen's breathing was quickly becoming ragged with effort. "Frank's in there, with another man, whom he is associated with. Perhaps two; it's difficult to tell." 

"Where is it?" Joe pressed.

"I don't know. Wait…it's on the edge of a large body of water…the Mediterranean, perhaps?" She swallowed with some difficulty and opened her eyes. Sweat glistened on her forehead. "Sorry, guys. That's the best I can do."

"Imagination. All of it," Vanessa Bender muttered. "I don't believe it."

"Believe it, Mom," Elen retorted. "It's the truth. It's happening right now."

"Yeah it is," Paul Laskry, with the typical temper of a redhead,snapped back sarcastically; "But that sort of evidence will never be admissible in court. Assuming, of course, that this case _would_ even get there. Face it, Joe: you're brother's dead and no amount of hunches or psychics or what have you will bring him back!"

"I didn't ask your opinion!" Joe said loudly. "You know of our…_familiarity_; why did you even come?"

"I seem to remember Van saying something about safety being in numbers," the other man replied. "And let me tell you something else, Joe Hardy. I will not stand for this kind of nonsense! Besides, Van needed a ride. Her car's—"

"In the garage? After sliding off the road into a tree to avoid a deer this afternoon when she came home from work?" Elen suggested.

Paul stared at her. "How did you know that?" he demanded. "It's not even gonna be on the news, and neither Vanessa nor I sure as hell haven't told _you_ anything lately."

"Get used to it," Elen said sharply. "That's the way I do things around here."

"Whoa, enough with the bickering already!" Callie Shaw broke in, coming into the living room.

"Callie! You got my message, I see," Joe exclaimed, grateful for the interruption. He strode quickly across the room to join her in the doorway.

"I got on the next flight home as soon as I heard about Frank," Callie explained, shedding off her rain jacket. It was, if possible, even wetter than Phil had been when he came. "Is he really—?"

"No." Elen answered for all of them. "He's not. But we _are_trying to figure out where he is."

"You know, I just remembered something I read a while back, when we were still kids," Jerry Gilroy spoke up. "It was about The Village, a place where retired government agents went—usually against their will—when they resigned. Think Frank could be there?"

Nancy nodded slowly. "The night before we were told he died, Frank did seem pretty uptight about something," she commented. "He kept muttering to himself."

"Did you hear anything?" Joe asked eagerly.

"A few words here and there," Nancy replied. "Nothing much; just some stuff out of context that didn't make any sense then. _'I need to resign—it's for their own good,_' he said. _'I can't live like this, not knowing who I have to kill next_—' that sort of thing. Like he was debating with himself."

"And look where it's got him," Biff Hooper said to the room at large, forcing a sad smile. "A place for retired Network agents, only neither they nor anyone else knows where it is."

The doorbell interrupted them. "I'll get it," Joe said, getting up. And to his not-so-great surprise, it was the Grey Man.

* * *

**_A/N: Well, there's the fifth chapter. I have no idea how many more there will be...however many it takes to get Frank out of The Village, I guess. Btw, if you're thinking about yelling about my using lyrics here, don't bother. The lyrics--and musical notations that go with them--are of my own invention._**


	6. Half a Dozen of the Other

Chapter 6

…Half a Dozen of the Other

A/N: Here's why I put in that warning at the beginning of the first chapter…unfortunately, you won't find out until near the end of this chapter.

* * *

The bell above the door to a Village flower shop gave a feeble metallic ring when Number 12 pushed through. 

"May I help you, sir?" a young woman, not much older than the maid, inquired. "Yes," Number 12 said. "I'd like a delivery made. One red rose and one yellow rose."

"And where might this be made to?" the woman, Number 14, asked politely.

He gave his home address.

"I'm sorry. Local delivery only."

"That's what the taxi service says. That's what the phone operator says," Number 12 growled. _I've growled more than just a bit since I've come here, haven't I?_ "That's what the mailboxes all say: _Local delivery only_. What ends 'local' around here? The mountains I saw on the maps? The other side of the ocean that borders this place?"

Other people in the flower shop were staring at him.

"Sir, please!" Number 14 said, her voice containing a poorly disguised English accent. "Do your business and get out."

He glared at her. "Why?"

She didn't answer him directly. "We have a saying here. _Questions are a burden to others_. You, sir, are a burden to yourself. Please, get out!"

He left without buying anything, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

The maid was back, this time for actual cleaning purposes. 

"Don't you ever rest?" Number 12 snapped at her when he saw her in his kitchen.

"It's the evening shift," Number 26 said, somewhat lamely.

"_GET OUT_!" he roared. "There is nothing to tell! I resigned because—because I wanted to! There is nothing you need know."

Later, he realized just how dangerous it would be if the administrators of the Village discovered how closely they had come to breaking the truth out of him.

* * *

"I was wondering when you would show up," Joe said. He glared at the Grey Man, who was standing in the downpour outside, without inviting the Network agent in. "You've got some explaining to do." 

"I'm quite aware of that, thank you," the Grey Man said. "But before either of us catches cold, might we come in?"

"_We_?"

"My associate, a Mr. John Hughes," the Grey Man explained, stepping aside and letting another man inside first. One wearing a black trench coat; black trousers; black top hat, which shed rain off like an umbrella. "No doubt you have seen him before; or perhaps, your brother was kind enough to speak highly of him."

"Cut it with the smooth talk already," Joe growled; "I'm kind of wanting to hear your version of how Frank supposedly became non-salvageable on his last case."

The Grey Man entered the house himself, stamping water off his grey trouser legs and immaculate grey shoes. "Let's make this brief," he said. "Into the living room, shall we? And no sudden moves."

Joe glanced from the Grey Man to that cold, pasty face of Mr. Hughes that seemed as if it had never seen sun nor any other type of weather before tonight. "Why would I even want to make any sudden moves?" he commented. "Your man alone is enough to quell _that_ notion."

"A sense of humour," Mr. Hughes remarked, his voice as cold as the rain outside. "Your brother had it, too."

"I see you have your friends rounded up already," the Grey Man said upon herding Joe into the living room. "Good. You all need to hear this."

"Mr. Hardy, perhaps you should get your other daughter down from her room," Mr. Hughes suggested.

* * *

"There's the Green Dome, Number 2's residence," Number 6 monologued. "And the Restaurant; and there's the Old People's Home. And the Beach; the Green. Not very large—" 

"But it does for Number 2's purposes," Number 12 said bitterly; the first words he'd spoken since a pilot had taken the two men on an aerial tour of The Village. Number 6, having finished his tour monologue, motioned for the pilot to take them back to Landing Green 3, and was silent for most of the walk back to his apartments; and didn't even bid goodbye to Number 12 when the latter parted ways.

---

Number 12 strode down the pathway, finally reaching a cemetery in which the tombstones had only numbers printed upon their cold, grey fronts: _114, 12, 34_, and so on down the line. It spooked him a little to see his own number upon the cold stone, but realized that, as people died in The Village, their numbers were given to the newer residents. Like himself.

He sank down against a large tree, surrounded on two sides by rhododendron bushes. "I'm sorry, Nancy. I failed you; and Brett; and Joe. My memories are all I have of you know. Will everyone I know forget me? Will you believe I am dead, as you have been told?"

He didn't notice the rain as it started to fall; nor did he notice the large weather balloon shape moving along on the road behind him, searching for any Village prisoners who had not yet conformed to Village ways.

---

Some time later, the sounds of light, running footsteps woke Number 12—_almost as if someone is running from something. A woman, by the sound of it. A small woman, frightened of something_.

He stood up, stretching his back out after unknown hours leaning against the tree, and followed those running footsteps.

They ended when the two—one a follower; both prisoners—came out into the open salt air, and Number 12 could see the back of the woman quite clearly, and with familiarity. Blue sweater, black shoulder-length hair—he'd seen her before. Number 6 had pointed her out, saying that she was Number 49 ("_Last week Number 49 was a little old lady in a wheelchair. Today she's you. You're new here, aren't you?_"); but _he_ knew her from someplace. Elsewhere, perhaps.

"Number 49," he called to her, venturing closer.

She didn't hear him; she was plucking red and yellow petals from a bouquet of flowers she'd evidently bought from The Village Florist. _Red for love, yellow for goodbye_.

"Number 49," he called, louder.

Still, she didn't turn to answer him. He could see, now, that the flowers she held were roses. _Red for love; yellow for goodbye. Thorns for those theoretical ones you have stuck me with all these years_, a voice intoned in his mind. _Her_ voice, to Joe, so many years before. Twenty-five, to be exact. He _knew_ her, and suddenly he remembered her name. Her true name; not her Village Number.

"Iola."


	7. Explanations

Chapter 7

Explanations

She turned; Number 12 expected to see something resembling surprise upon her face, as well as a face that he could still readily recognise. But her face was aged beyond her years, only vaguely reminiscent of the young woman he remembered from his youth.

"You're Frank Hardy," she said. "When that man you were with this morning asked me if I was new here, I recognised you almost instantly. It's been a long time."

"Too long," Number 12 agreed. "Long enough for Joe to meet, fall in love with, marry, and divorce another woman."

"Who?" Number 49 asked.

"Vanessa Bender," he replied.

"Why did she divorce Joe?"

"They had twin daughters, Elen and Gwladys. Gwladys- that's Welsh for Claudia, by the way- is normal. Elen's got a few talents that Vanessa's not too pleased about at the moment."

"Do I dare ask what those talents are?" Number 49 said.

"She can…sense things about a person. But only if that something affects a large number of people. And she can never tell if it will happen tomorrow or ten years from that vision." He shrugged. "It's called clairvoyance by a lot of people, but Vanessa and her current husband, Paul Laskry, call it luck. They want nothing to do with her because she's clairvoyant."

"What about you?" Number 49 asked with a slight grin. "Any clairvoyance on your side of the family?"

"No," he replied, and left it at that.

* * *

Number 2, this one a large, round man with a pasty-white face, watched the two prisoners upon the screen in his blue-tinged chamber. "I do believe we're getting somewhere," he said, smiling to himself as he recalled the long talk he had had with Number 49 when she had first arrived in The Village.

"_What do you want me to do?" Number 49 asked._

_Number 2 smiled, and his smile reminded Number 49 of a fox that had discovered a way into a well-guarded chicken coop. "Talk with Number 12. You're supposed to know him from your childhood; he'll remember Iola and thus be willing to talk. Make plans to escape. Anything, so long as he reveals why he resigned."_

"_I know that answer already," Number 49 replied._

"_And?" he pressed._

"_He resigned as a matter of conscience. You're not the only one who's been spying on his family; I have, too, when they least expect it. Always in disguise, though. They think Iola's dead, remember? Anyway, he resigned to keep his family safe. But from the looks of things, he may have just endangered them more._" _She sighed. "Though I will try, and I will tell you everything he tells me."_

* * *

"Dad, I'm scared," Gwladys confessed.

They were sitting together upon the windowseat in her room. Absently, Joe looked out the window they were both leaning against and saw that familiar view of blue-grey sea a few alleys over, and the baymouth bar that now closed the bay off completely from the ocean. A lighthouse was there now, on the thin stretch of sand; through the late September rain he could see its piercing light. _Here's land_, it said. _Land, or a treacherous place for you ships. Don't come here; stay out there. Way out there where you're safe._ "I know, honey," he said, reaching out awkwardly to place his hand on her knee and give it a reassuring squeeze. Suddenly, as if trying to keep from breaking down (thought Gwladys), he asked, "Did you know that Barmet Bay used to be opened to the Atlantic when Frank and I were kids?" _BIG mistake._ "God, I wish it was then," he said quietly, his resolve not to cry in front of his family diminishing as tears finally worked their way to the surface. "Everything was so innocent."

But they could not stay up here much longer, or the Grey Man would send that machine-like Hughes up to see what was keeping them.

* * *

"We don't know where Frank is," the Grey Man said, repeating what they already knew; but Joe, with his many years of police experience, could tell the older man was lying. "All we know is that he's somewhere overseas, and we can't reach him. We've received word that he is non-salvageable."

Joe was, once again, in his living room with the rest of the old gang, trying hard not to break down again.

"You okay?" Callie asked him.

"Considering that my brother is supposedly dead, yes," he replied somewhat coldly, though he hadn't meant it to be. This business of keeping his emotions tucked safely away where no one could reach them was a whole lot easier said than done. "I keep thinking that this will be like all the other times, that somehow Frank will manage to escape at the last possible moment before the bomb ticks down to zero, or the gun goes off, or…" His voice trailed off. "Lady Luck was always on our side back then. Always. But maybe now our luck is running low. Detectives aren't supposed to die, and it's always a shock when one of us _is_ killed. But all that I can do is hope that I'm not next on the list."

* * *

"I appreciate your telling us everything you know about Frank's last case," Joe told the Grey Man as he, Nancy, and Elenwalked the older man and Mr. Hughes to the door.

The Network agent shrugged. "It was the least I could do for you, considering how close you and Frank were," he said. "But I am sorry I couldn't be of more help in determining whether he _is_ alive."

"You know where he is," Elen accused. "You just don't want us to know."

The Grey Man sighed. "You're right, I do know. Meet me tomorrow in my office at headquarters, and we'll discuss it then. Just Joe and Nancy."

Nancy glanced at him. "Why just us?"

"It would look suspicious, all of Frank's old friends in at once. But with just you and Joe, we can make a cover story of you being there to get Frank's things." He exited the dwelling, tailed by Mr. Hughes. Neither spoke until reaching their vehicle.

"Time for Phase Two," Mr. Hughes said, somewhat dryly.

* * *

Later, after everyone had left upon promising to come back the next morning to start searching for Frank, Joe realised that perhaps Jerry Gilroy, with his notion of Frank being in The Village, was plausible after all; and that the Network _did_ know where Frank was: Nancy had said that Frank had been home at least two days before he was supposedly killed in action. 


	8. Making Plans

Chapter 8

Making Plans

---

_A/N: In the episode entitled _The Chimes of Big Ben_, we discover exactly where The Village is, thanks to the Number 8 character. And to certain parties who have asked: It's not an island…_

_Btw, sorry if it's a while between updates. I'm taking 17 credit hours this semester at the college. But I'll try to update at least once a week, if not more._

_

* * *

_

"Listen to me, please?"

Number 12 turned to Iola—_Number 49, I should say. Otherwise they'll get suspicious, us being on first-name terms instead of calling each other by our numbers_. "All right. I'm listening."

"Before I was brought here, I'd escaped, even though that didn't really go according to plan. And while I was on the run, I met a group of rebels who were willing to help me get back home. I know where their base is; I could take you there within the month, if you wish."

"Why within the month and not, say, the week? Before the day's out would do quite nicely, too."

"It takes time to get supplies ready if you must do it in secret," Number 49 replied.

---

"Attention all," the woman's voice said over the public address system the next morning. "Can draw, can paint, can work with clay? If so, then the village arts and crafts show is for you!"

"That's what we're waiting for," Number 49 told Number 12 quietly over brunch at the Restaurant. "We can make our escape after the art show."

"How?"

"You did woodworking in high school, remember? We could easily build a contraption that would win. And then, if someone weaves a tapestry or a similar item for the show, we can buy it from them."

Number 12 suddenly realised what Number 49 had in mind. "A boat!" He sipped some coffee. "But they'll see right through the plan, won't they?"

Number 49 shook her head. "No. And I know where to find an electropod—"

"A _what_?"

"An electropod. It keeps Rover from attacking if we get out of range, or violate prohibited boundaries. But anyway, we probably won't need it."

He turned to her, realising another thing. "You seem to know an awful lot about this place, _Iola_," he commented. "Do you know where it is?"

She bit her lip, then nodded. "We're in Lithuania; thirty miles from the Polish border."

* * *

"What did you do to get yourself here?" Number 12 asked, working on the frame of the boat he would be entering in the arts and crafts show. 

"Isn't that obvious?" Number 49 snapped. "I was saved from the car at the mall, if you haven't remembered yet. And after several years, I was brought here."

"How long ago were you kidnapped?"

"20 years," Number 49 replied promptly. "I was seventeen, same as Joe. You know this already."

She left, and Number 12 was able to ponder over everything in private. _She's not Iola,_ was his first thought. _It's been 25 years, not 20. But I can't let on that I know she's not Iola, because then Number 2 would get suspicious. He probably already is._ Yet for now, he couldn't do anything until their boat was finished. So he went back to chiseling out its bottom. But still, he wondered what new trick Number 2 and Number 49 had up their sleeve.


	9. Sails of Silver

Chapter 9

Sails of Silver

"And the winner in the 65 and older category of the 10th annual Village Arts Show is…" Number 2 opened an envelope one of the judges, a female known as Number 19, handed him. "Number 78, for her magnificent tapestry!"

Number 78, an elderly woman with greying hair, smiled broadly as she walked up to the podium in the Town Hall and accepted the prize Number 2 handed to her.

"And the moment we've all been waiting for," Number 2 announced, digging into the envelope once more. "The winner of the 2,000 work units Grand Prize, for his magnificent wood carving…Number 12!"

Number 12 grinned as broadly as Number 78 as the other Villagers, Number 49 among them, clapped loudly. He walked up to accept his prize, and got an idea.

"I do not really deserve this," he said as everyone clamored for a speech. "It really goes to Number 78. So, I would like to present these 2,000 work units to her in order to purchase her tapestry of Number 2, so that I might hang it in my own home for my own enjoyment."

The funny thing was, everyone approved.

---

_He walked down to the Beach that night to assemble the boat for sailing within the next few days. As he was finishing, something in the water caught his eye: a person, washed up on the beach just barely within the tidal range._

_He went over to the body; from the way it was moving limply with the rise and fall of the water, he was sure it was just a body now, and nothing else. Patting it down, he discovered a wallet soaked through with lake-water._

_Number 12 opened the wallet he'd accidentally discovered, and saw a photograph of a young woman's face he remembered quite clearly. Turning the body over, he could vaguely recognize the man's face. "Chet?" he said in disbelief._

_But perhaps he was wrong. After all, it had been a long time since he'd seen Iola's brother, and faces changed over the years. Someone totally unrelated could have Iola's picture, and Chet Morton's face._

_"Of all people, you are the least I would suspect," a voice said from behind Number 12, quite suddenly._

_He'd forgotten that there was a small network of caves in those rocks behind him; Number 6 had mentioned them when the two men had met that first day. Turning, he saw a man standing there at the base of the rocks; and, squinting, he could recognize that man after a fashion. "Biff Hooper?" His childhood friend inclined his head slightly. "What did you do to get here?"_

_The other man shrugged. "I was working with Phil one day, and the next, I was here. They use some sort of gas that leaves no side effect and makes it seem as though nothing has changed since you were gassed, save the fact that you've fallen down. One moment you're at your real home; the next, here, with no idea of how or why you are here."_

_Number 12 nodded. "I know. How long have you been here?"_

_"Not too long after yourself," was the reply. Biff Hooper glanced up at the darkening clouds, then at one that was low-lying and the perfect image of Rover. "There are others here that we know; that we might remember from when we were kids." He sighed. "Those days were so carefree then. Innocent, working on mysteries that had nothing to do with international security…I wish we were back Then again."_

_Number 12 sighed as well. "You're not the only one," he said dryly._

---

Number 49 chewed her bottom lip as she watched the screen in the Camera Chambers; Number 14 and his companion, a female known as Number 45 (who worked at the hospital), were breathing down her neck and making her quite uncomfortable.

"This had better work," Number 14, a balding man smelling of Earl Grey and with a clipped British accent said for the fiftieth time. "Number 2 will be most displeased if it does not."

"Aye," Number 45 said, her accent saying she was from the western part of New York State and that she'd studied Spanish and Welsh for several years, nearly to the point where the foreign pronunciations corrupted her New York ones, thus making her sound French in some views. Not to mention the fact that she'd also lived in England, Number 49's own native country, for nearly as many years as Number 49 had been impersonating others. "The new Number 2 will have our hides for sure."


	10. Warnings

Chapter 10

A/N: Sorry about the long wait…writer's block. Btw, I am on vacation from school until January 18th, which means that I probably won't update anything until sometime in February. Reason: non-existent internet capabilities on home computer.

_Prisoner_ Trivia: the mentioned incident involving Number 6 occured in the last episode of the show.

* * *

Joe couldn't sleep. Finally, after tossing and turning for several hours, he got up and went downstairs for something to drink. Maybe that would help.

A light was still on in the living room, and he could hear the TV faintly. "Ellie?" he said, seeing her sitting on the couch, wrapped in a flannel afghan. "It's after three. What are you doing up?"

She looked at him, then back at the TV. "I couldn't sleep."

"Join the club," Joe commented, sitting down next to her. "Worried about Frank?"

Elen nodded. "Yeah. Dad, we're not going to come back alive if we go after him. At least one of us will be killed."

His sharp intake of breath made her huddle deeper into the blanket.

"Now I know why Mom didn't want to be around me," she said. "I don't _like_ being able to see the future. I don't like that feeling of complete and utter helplessness that comes with the ability."

Joe didn't know what to do. This was so different from the times when he'd had to stay home and comfort his mother and father when Frank was missing. Or when they got death threats practically every single case. Or…he didn't want to think about Frank, because that just made Elen's feelings about her gift drill into him.

"It's not your fault," he said gently. "Do you want to stay home while we go rescue him?"

Elen's look of horror was one that he himself had worn countless occasions. "No," she said indignantly. "I'm not staying home while I can still be able to see what might go wrong. You might need it."

Joe smiled wryly. "Forget I even asked you that," he said.

"Dad?" Elen asked when he finally got up to go back upstairs.

"Yeah?"

"I hope we find him."

"So do I, kiddo. So do I."

* * *

Joe and Elen were not the only Hardys who couldn't sleep that night. Brett Hardy, Nancy and Frank's ten-year-old son, couldn't either.

He could remember back in kindergarten when his teacher asked them what their parents did for a living, and he had told her that they were agents.

"What kind of agents?" she'd asked. He'd answered that he didn't know. That weekend, Frank and Nancy had been attacked meeting with the Grey Man.

He could remember a tense situation in fourth grade when Frank was working on a case for the Network that involved electronic thefts from various local and national businesses in Bayport. Brett had been kidnapped during that one for bargaining chip purposes.

It seemed that not even his friends at school were immune to his parents' work. His best friend, Sarah Benson, had played the part of a buyer in an illegal drug case in which students were being sold the drugs last year. _That_ one had left Brett with a bullet scar on his shoulder. Maybe in the morning at school he'dask Sarahto help them in Lithuania.

* * *

The Grey Man sat at his desk, watching the second hand on his office clock make round after round. He'd been at the Fox Haus, the Bayport Network headquarters, since nine that night, waiting for a call from his superior.

He yawned, wondering if the Village was really secure enough to hold Frank and the other Villagers. Maybe. Maybe not. It had been rebuilt after Number 6 had escaped with the Number 2 at the time to London and had accidentally set off the rocket that was being kept there. Now it was good as new. But always the question was safety.

He knew Joe and Nancy were currently attempting to plan a way to find Frank. Elen probably had already told them where her uncle was.

He let his gaze turn back to the clock. It didn't look as if he would get that phone call tonight, but just as he was getting up to leave, the phone rang.


	11. Hunches

Chapter 11

Hunches

A/N: I realize I said last chapter that I'd not be updating at least until January or February sometime, but that changed, thanks to a certain Christmas present!

* * *

The first thing Joe did that next morning after Elen's warning was to call Nancy and tell her that at least one of them might not make it out alive if they went in to rescue Frank. And of course, Nancy decided, as Joe and Elen and Gwladys had, to go ahead with the attempt. "It's difficult enough watching what this whole ordeal is doing to you, Joe. Not to mention what it's doing to the twins." Nancy said over the phone. "We might just as well attempt it anyway, because otherwise we'll never know if we'd succeed in rescuing Frank."

Joe nodded in agreement, even though he knew that Nancy couldn't see him do so. "Yeah." A lengthy pause. "You want to meet later on today to discuss tactics?"

"Sure. Five okay with you?"

"Yeah; Elen and Gwladys are done with school by then. Look, Nancy, I'm really grateful for this."

Nancy gave a quick sigh. "You're not the only one who cares about Frank," she said.

---

The Grey Man sighed, rubbed his temples. "Atlas, the Hardys are attempting to get Frank out of The Village. If it were to come down to actually having to kill one or all of them to keep that particular secret safe, we need to bring in backup."

"The informants we've got in the Assassins?" Atlas, a small, thin man who still bore remnants of the time he spent running from the border patrol in Greece, suggested.

"Maybe so. I hate to have to do this, but I got orders from higher up last night at midnight to prevent Frank Hardy from returning to his home. Civilians cannot know about The Village. As it is, the entire group associated with Frank Hardy does know about it."

"His wife and kid are going to be upset about that."

"Tell me about it," the Grey Man replied. "It's at times like these when I wish that we weren't in a position that dealt with civilian safety."

---

Thursday night of that same week, Joe came home from Nancy and Frank's exhausted and extremely pissed at whoever it was who had taken Frank, only to find a note tacked to his front door.

_Give up your search for your brother or you will not come back alive._

---

"So when are we leaving for Europe?" Sarah Benson asked Brett at the Hardys that same afternoon.

"This weekend sometime, as soon as we can get the go ahead from immigration," Brett replied. "They know the situation, but we're hoping that they're on our side and not the Network's. Did you know that Uncle Joe got a note last night that said we wouldn't make it back alive if we went ahead with the operation?" He paused. "Elen saw something along the same line, too."

Sarah winced. "I hope beyond all hope that she's wrong. That the note's wrong, too."

"Tell me about it," Brett said. "Are your folks okay with the idea of your going to Europe until further notice?"

She nodded as she took out a sheaf of papers. "Uh-huh. Listen, one of the teachers at school, I think it was the criminal justice teacher, said that her dad had been in The Village once, but had escaped. She gave me this. Thought it might help." Sarah handed Brett the papers; they turned out to be detailed, intricate maps of the areas surrounding The Village.

"You're right. It will."

---

At five sharp that evening, Nancy and Brett arrived with Jerry Gilroy, Callie Shaw, Chet Morton, Biff Hooper, Phil Cohen, and the others.

"Maybe I'm wrong about this," Elen said as she and her father got snacks from the kitchen; "but I keep feeling that I was wrong about what I said last night. I don't think it's one of us who'll get killed. It'll be Uncle Frank."

Joe hadn't told her about the note he'd received from the Grey Man that afternoon. _She's late on that. What if someday she's late on something that is vital to our state of being?_


	12. Negative Reciprocity

Chapter 12

Negative Reciprocity

_Maybe this was a bad idea,_ Joe thought as he checked his luggage one last time. _A _really_ bad idea._ He didn't know why—maybe being around Elen so much was starting to get to him?—but his shoulder blades felt tight. It was that spooky kind of feeling that indicates someone is watching, but when you whip around, nobody's there.

---

It was nearly ten o'clock in the morning when he, Elen, and Gwladys left for Nancy's. _Maybe whoever sent that note wasn't bluffing_, Joe thought as he manoeuvred the van through the Saturday morning traffic. In the back seats, Elen was working on homework the twins had to do while they were gone, and Gwladys was listening to some of her CDs. It was hard to believe that Frank had gone missing, and then announced non-salvageable by the Network agents he had worked with, just two weeks ago. _Seems a lot longer. I wish none of this had happened. That we didn't have to worry about who was on our side…or that we didn't have to worry about who would be the next one killed._

A horn behind him made a sound similar to the vocalizations associated with the autumnal geese migrations; Joe glared in the rear-view mirror at the offending car. "What's your hurry?" he muttered under his breath. He wanted so much to utter a few choice words aloud, but decided against it. That wouldn't do anything concerning the present situation.

He finally pulled into Nancy and Frank's driveway, but something seemed peculiar. There was no homey feeling to the place; it was like pulling into the driveway of a house you knew to have been deserted long ago. "Stay here," he ordered as Elen and Gwladys started to get out, realizing they were at one of their destinations for that morning. "Just stay here." He tried to keep the nervous fear out of his voice, but from Elen's look, he had a feeling he hadn't succeeded.

Joe eased the door open; it wasn't locked. And immediately heard the whispering sound of someone breathing quietly. But again, looking around as he had back home, his eyes told him no one was there. Yet his shoulder blades were still tight. "Nancy? Brett?" he called.

"Joe, get out of here! Now!" Nancy shrieked. He whipped toward the door, and saw Mr. Hughes standing there behind Nancy with a pistol glinting in an upraised hand and a cold grin upon his face. Brett was held in the Grey Man's clutches; Elen and Gwladys were accompanied by two other Network agents Joe knew quite well—one of them, he remembered, had been with them in Greece 25 years ago—his codename with the Network was Atlas; the other one was a man whose codename with the Network was Ian. Behind him, he could hear the ominous sound of gas hissing into the room.

---

Number 49 bit her lip again as the door to the Camera Chambers flew open and a short, greying woman with black hair and piercing dark eyes stormed through, swinging her triangular-handled umbrella. "What's going on here?" she barked. "Get that man back to his quarters." Number 2 shook her head. "I'm surprised that you haven't heard that his brother and family are on their way here."

_"They found out about us?" _Number 49 burst out. "But…civilians aren't _supposed_ to know about us!"

"Nevertheless," Number 2 said as she eyed the other woman; "he and his friends have figured out where the man known as Frank Hardy is. They even know the country we're in. Fortunately, they don't know our exact location."

"It'll cause trouble," 49 said as she glanced back at the screen that overlooked the entire steel-swathed room which now, instead of Number 12's dreams, showed The Village and its inhabitants, most of whom were at the concert on the Village Green.

The new Number 2 nodded grimly. _Now we turn on the sweat_, she thought without much humour.

---

**To Be Continued in "No Place to Hide."**


End file.
